Not till Everard was within a few yards of her did Ethel emerge from the umbrage of the trees and go slowly to meet him. He gave a great start the moment his eyes fell on her, and all his face lighted suddenly up as she had foretold it would. Three or four quick strides brought him to her side, and the same instant she was enfolded in his arms and strained close to his heart. Gently disengaging herself she said— “Is this the way to treat an unprotected female? You ought really to try to get the better of your primitive instincts. Marriage by capture went out centuries ago. But, oh, Everard, I have so much to tell you!” She took his arm and together they began to pace slowly to and fro in the shadow of the great trees. “Do you know, sir, in whose company you are?” she playfully went on presently. “Do you know that she who is now speaking to you is Miss Clare of Withington Chase?” Everard stopped dead. “Then what I thought must be true has come true!” he said; and on the instant all the gladness died out of his face, and half his youth seemed to go with it. But Ethel was not looking at him just then and saw nothing of the change. “Yes,” she resumed, “henceforth my name will be Ethel Thursby Clare. Only an hour ago I was told. I am no longer a waif, a nobody’s child. The mystery of my birth is a mystery no longer. I have found a father, a grandfather, a home—though, thanks to my dear aunts, I have never known the want of the last—and I owe them all to you—to you—to you!” As she spoke she faced him suddenly and gazed at him with deep love and devotion in her eyes. “But do you not see, cannot you comprehend,” cried Everard in deep dejection, “how this change in your fortunes affects the whole position of affairs as between you and me? When I sought and won from you a promise to become my wife, I knew you only as Ethel Thursby, a portionless girl no higher in the social scale than myself. To-day I know you as the descendant of an old and honoured family, as the granddaughter of a man both proud and rich, who will naturally be justified in expecting that when Miss Clare marries it will be some person very different from one of his own salaried dependents.” “When you took me for your promised wife, you did so with your eyes open, knowing me to be what I was—a nameless waif—and having no certainty that one day it might not be shown that I was the offspring of beggars, or worse. But did you allow that prospect to deter you in the least? You know well and I know well that you did not; and if it had been proved that I was the descendant of a family of thieves instead of the Clares of Withington, I have such faith in your love for me that I believe you would still have said: I care not whose child you are; you are still my promised wife.” “In believing so you do me no more than justice.”